


one step forward, two steps...

by maderilien



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Blackwatch Era, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Self-Worth Issues, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25839826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maderilien/pseuds/maderilien
Summary: Genji and McCree aren't friends. They're not even acquaintances—not really.Not yet, at least.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Genji Shimada
Comments: 8
Kudos: 49





	one step forward, two steps...

It’s pitch black outside. Here and there, red lights flicker in the water, signalling the presence of the base’s buoyant sensors guarding the place. Perched high up on a barely-accessible ledge, Genji has been staring at the horizon for hours now, ever since the doctors cleared him from the medbay earlier that day. His own red lights glimmer in the night, a reply to the pieces of metal in the water. Part of him wants to let himself fall—it would be easy, especially from where he’s sitting, the cliff of Gibraltar ending right by the side of the wall. Despite the new lightweight magnesium alloys they plated him with, he is more metal than human now. He will sink. The water knows.

The moon has moved plenty across the ocean. Where it once sat to the left of the buildings, merely its halo visible, now it watches Genji from the middle of the sky, a shadowed ellipse surrounded by the vastness of the cosmos. The water reflects some of its light, but most of all it reflects the deep darkness of the world, uniting the Atlantic and the sky into an all-encompassing black hole. 

_ There are many ways one can touch the stars, _ he thinks grimly, throwing the water a final look before he hops back down.

He spent the past month in a different country, lost somewhere in central Europe, where he played tag with a wanted criminal. Commander Reyes monitored him the entire time, led him this and that way through comms and secret coded messages, and though he didn’t have other allies and back-up, Genji feels better equipped to face the Blackwatch team when the time comes for proper missions. The solitude on this assignment soothed parts of him he hadn’t realized were hurting and the return home brought an unexpected comfort.

Home.

It’s hard to think of any place as ‘home’ nowadays, but Watchpoint: Gibraltar has been his central point for the past two years. 

It is, at least, something close to it.

When the moon reaches the right half of the sky, he tells himself he’s dawdled enough. Sitting alone in the dark with his unwelcoming thoughts for company isn’t pleasant, though now and then he reaches a point of emptiness that clears him of all ailments. His therapist says he is ‘repressing’ things, but it makes him forget about himself for a few hours, so he doesn’t care much about that particular professional assessment.

He is one of the luckier agents of Overwatch. (This ‘luck’ came at a steep price.) He has his own room, a minuscule shoebox beyond the communal area and the usual agent quarters. Most of his colleagues sleep six or eight or even ten in the same large room, with bunk beds and barely a few pieces of extra furniture for their things. In a way, it helps that they are always on the move, living more in hotels, motels, warehouses, and out on the field than on the base, so that any moment of respite brings a soft mattress and contentment and doesn’t let them get attached to their possessions. Genji has spent almost his entire time in Gibraltar in the med-bay and it continues to be his dwelling place. 

Still. 

Four walls, a locking door, no permission for anyone to enter except for the Commander—it is a safe space.

On his way there, he passes by the mess hall. The door is cracked open, but no lights are turned on except for the motion sensitive night lights peppering the corridors. Though heavy, he’s learned how to carry himself to make little noise, and he continues on his way with caution in the dim light, praying he won’t bump into the night patrol any time soon.

A stark, clear gunshot startles him so hard the pressure sensors on his hands warn him insistently of his tightly clenched fists. Ahead, flickering light spills on the corridor from one of the communal rooms. He approaches slowly; words replace the startling noise of weapons—a few men conversing in English. Despite his aversion to human interaction, he peeks inside.

The screen is turned on—not the enormous one mounted on the wall that the agents like to use most frequently when they’re relaxing, which fills every inch of the room with light and sound and life. No, this one is a small, personal device, the screen tiny enough that he could definitely cover its width with his hand. It’s left carelessly on the sofa, balanced on one of its armrests.

Genji steps inside. He doesn’t detect anyone in the room, perhaps the only reason he lingers. An old movie is playing, American by the looks of it. There is an exchange happening between several men under the guise of the night. They’re in a graveyard of some sort, shooting at each other blindly through the darkness. At the same time, the scene changes to show a man dressed in a wooly vest and a wide-brimmed hat inspecting a cellar.

It’s a western, he realizes.

He watches the scene play out: the man in the cellar stumbles over a woman, whom he kidnaps. The men in the graveyard return to the house, only to find that she is missing.

“Enjoying the movie?”

Genji’s breath stops cold in his lungs.

_ I didn’t hear him I didn’t hear him I didn’t— _

He twirls around, his wakizashi drawn from his belt.

In the doorway, frozen midstep, hands angled out defensively as much as the bowls he’s carrying allow him, stands a young agent. He takes a step back in shock, as surprised by Genji’s outburst as Genji had been himself by the agent’s appearance.

“Woah, woah, I’m a friend! Friend,” the man says. Underneath one arm he has a large bag of potato chips, which crinkles noisily in the room as he adjusts his grip on the food. In his arms he has more snacks, jelly beans, popcorn and a few cans of soda hang in a plastic bag from his elbow.

Genji doesn’t move a muscle. His mind is reeling, on fire from the adrenaline and whatever liquids keep his monstrous parts working. 

“Do you want to…” the agent’s eyes dart to the screen briefly as an apprehensive look befalls him. 

Genji does not move a muscle.

“It’s a classic,” he tries again.  _ “A Fistful of Dollars, _ Clint Eastwood. Have you heard of it?”

Genji has not, in fact, heard of it, nor has he heard of the actor (or is it the director?). He glares resolutely at the man. Slowly, he retracts his blade and replaces it in the sheath by his left side. From the corner of his eye, he sees the agent breathe out in relief, shoulders slumping down. It both pleases and irks Genji that this is what his presence has come to, but when he  ~~ accidentally,  _ accidentally— _ ~~ catches his reflection in windows, he understands why people take a step back.

~~ He wants to step back from himself so much— ~~

“I have plenty of snacks,” the agent says, almost hopefully.

“I don’t eat,” Genji replies morosely. He does, obviously, but going into the particularities of his cyborg diet makes him nauseous, so he leaves it at that.

“Ah.”

…

“You sure you don’t want to watch?”

Genji levels him with a look so cold that the agent ends up tense and on edge again.

"Sorry, I’ll leave you be,” he says. Avoiding looking at Genji, the man walks around him to the sofa. He puts down the food on the coffee table, sits down, moves the device to the table as well, and grabs one of the soda cans, popping it open with a metallic  _ click. _

The cowboy on the screen is now sitting in front of a saloon, spectating a prisoner exchange. Forlorn and miserable, the woman is waiting on a white horse, sun blazing above her.

Once, years ago, Genji remembers the way his father patted him on the back fondly as they were watching a western together. It was  _ The Magnificent Seven _ and it was full of suspense. His older brother didn't shut up the entire time, criticizing it and comparing it with the movie it was based on—their own  _ Seven Samurai. _ Hanzo's voice droned on and on, from one mistake to the next, easily finding things to critique even when the scene was, to Genji's mind, entertaining and perfect. Both their parents were silent and absorbed by the movie, and he was used to Hanzo's boring voice and could tune him out at the blink of an eye, so for those two hours, Genji felt like they were a normal family, enjoying their afternoon together. Even now he can picture the way the late summer sun streamed into the house, bathing half of the day room in golden rays.

“Oh, poor Marisol,” the agent says suddenly. “This scene always gets to me.”

Genji blinks, coming back to himself. How many minutes passed?!

He eyes the agent warily, but it doesn’t seem like the man is talking to him. His eyes are on the screen, occasionally glancing down at the chips he is eating one by one. Another minute passes in this fashion, with Genji observing the man and the man doing a good job of pretending he is still interested by the movie.

The agent is scruffy and buff. Genji has seen him around before plenty of times, but he’s never spared anyone more than a glance in the training rooms. The man is dressed in the customary downtime outfit save for the jacket, and the simple grey t-shirt falls down well on his body, outlining the muscles of his arms enough to allude at the strength the man possesses. In another life, Genji might have found him attractive.

No, that’s not right.

His tastes haven’t changed.  _ He _ has.

In another life, perhaps this man would have found  _ him _ attractive and fun to be around.

More sounds of violence come from the device. The cowboy has been captured and the bad guys are questioning him. It takes a monumental effort, but the main character comes around at last and escapes in agony. Genji watches despite himself.

The agent (McCree! the name finally comes to him) scoots over, leaving a very conspicuous empty spot by his side, in direct view of the screen.

Genji remains standing where he is, to the side of the sofa.

A minute later, the man rotates the device so that the screen faces Genji better. Annoyance sparks inside of him at the gesture—why does this man think he needs to be accommodated to this extent?! Why does he assume Genji is even enjoying this? He could very well be plotting how to kill him right now, with his glowing, menacing red eyes!

He is angry, but a part of Genji yearns for this comfort. A tiny part, a sliver of it, lost in the depths of his existential dread like a single candle flickering weakly inside a crypt.

The dark is comforting enough, he thinks fiercely.

Still, he stays until the credits roll, lulled by a memory.

"I have the day off tomorrow," McCree explains, "so I'll prep the next one. It's called  _ For A Few Dollars More _ and it features Lee Van Cleef, an outstanding actor—"

Genji sits down gingerly on the sofa. There's blades hidden in his calves and he fears he is too sharp edged now to relax. He doesn't want to be scolded for damaging Overwatch property again, accidental or otherwise. Aware of the break in monologue he caused in the agent, he turns to him blankly, eyes expectant.

McCree's face is caught in surprise and painted with hopefulness. He continues his introduction of the film with a small smile on his face, moving from the names and performance of the actors, to the composer of the soundtrack, whom he admires greatly. He has a pleasant voice, deep and warm, and this close to him, Genji can smell the faintest trace of tobacco on his clothes. He catches himself leaning toward McCree in time, before it can become obvious to the Blackwatch agent. 

Even so, it is enough that Genji is aware of the movement.

Whatever mellow mood he might have begun to nurture tonight, it sours at once.

He is a pile of metal and there is more oil in his body than there is blood. He has no business being here, making friends.

The opening scene is still unfolding when he stands stiffly and walks away.

"I'm sorry, I—I'll be quiet, I promise," the agent says at once, twisting over the back of the sofa. The request hidden in his tone is clear. 

Genji scoffs.

_ It's not you, McCree. _

He closes the door behind him firmly, then returns to his tiny room. Anger and regret and disappointment all swirl around in his mind and as he sits down on the bed, he feels like a stone sinking into the bottomless ocean.

_ It's me. _

**Author's Note:**

> Please watch the Dollars trilogy, it is *chefs kiss* ♥♥
> 
> This ain't much, but I wanted to offer a little food for the mcgenji community, which I have been an avid (but lurking) member of for years now! I hope to write more in the future, this piece came out a bit too angsty whoops! THERE IS FLUFF ON THE LIST TO BE DONE.. SOMETIME!
> 
> Thank you for reading! ♥ Drop me a comment and let me know what you thought ^^


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